End Of Days
by Torithy
Summary: It was just another dilapidated dive bar, one steeped in far-from-charming history that mattered to no one but those caught in its wake - part of a dying world he'd long since left behind. And yet ... still he felt its pull.


**Author Note: So, my days of writing fanfiction have been curtailed, if not quite ended, but this just came to me and I figured there was no harm throwing it out there. It's just a one-shot. Who knows, after the final, I may feel compelled to write another only taking a different tack ...**

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**End of Days  
**_****If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.  
\- Lao Tzu****_

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The place was a shithole, even the regulars would probably cop to that. Plain old road dirt and stains of unknown, yet undoubtedly dubious origin marred the floor. Thick layers of dust dulled the windows and flecked the faints rays of what little light did make it through from outside.

Pushing open the stiff door had drawn a groan of protest from the hinges, but only a glance or two from the clientele. They were a motley crew, all right. One woman of indeterminate age perched without grace on a stool by the corner of the bar, dragging on a cigarette and killing the resulting hack of a cough with slugs of something that looked like bourbon and probably was. Save for her and her hive of bleached blonde curls, only men inhabited the gloom.

The only one who seemed to work there was some shrunken old guy near the back, almost swallowed up by his once-white apron and sweeping at a spot in the far corner with a broom and plenty of enthusiasm, if little by the way of results. The rest either muttered together in mindless conversation around small, rickety tables or stared in solitary silence at the poor quality picture of the cheap-ass television mounted on the wall. It was a vintage model, no doubt out of neglect or necessity rather than style. In fact, at a glance, all the furnishings were both mismatching and clearly well past their prime - a state that seemed to extend to the customers.

The whole set-up had an air of having been forgotten by time and the real world. It was the type of place that could have existed forever. Except it couldn't have, and it didn't.

He could guess most of it; piece together the highlights of an undoubtedly murky history. Falling into disrepair, laying vacant and corroding like much of the all-but-abandoned street, then finally getting gutted and reborn into something like its current form. He doubted it had ever been more than a dive though, even if most of the wear and tear had only been added through time.

Slow steps had taken him further into the shadows unbidden. Instead of heading for the bar, he simply took a seat in a vacant booth. Anyone who had spared him a look had already lost interest and he didn't mind that one bit. He sure as hell wasn't here for the company.

Running his fingers over the flaking paint of the wood table in front of him, he took in his surroundings again. An old crumpled photograph, blown up and caught behind the cracked glass of a simple frame, caught his eye. This place, as it had once been. Not Shooters, but Scoops and Sweets, complete with an unlikely line of motorcycles parked outside.

He could feel rather than see the stare. Someone was watching him intently. The sound of brushing, just audible before over the crackling sound of the television, had stopped. He hung his head and raked a shaky hand through his slicked back hair. This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake.

He stood, wiping sweaty palms on his baggy blue jeans.

"You ... You want a beer?"

The quiet voice held a near-desperate, half-hopeful quality no such simple question should have warranted. The little man still clutching his broom scuttled towards him, like he was unsure whether or not to approach and yet unable to hold back. "I can get you a beer," he tried again. "Or, y'know, whatever you want."

His own voice, when he found it, was tight and hoarse. "I gotta go."

The mournful brown eyes that stared up at him somehow both in disbelief and understanding were wet and something clenched in his gut, twisting him up inside even before the big clumsy prosthetic hand reached tentatively for his arm and grazed the flannel of his shirt. "Little Tommy Teller ..."

He jerked away like he had been burned, hating the wounded look it caused, but shaking it off and striding for the door. Whatever was being called after him was lost in the slam of the door.

He was halfway down the street before he realised no one was following and he stopped to tilt his head back with a heavy sigh. Bright blue eyes closed against the sun in a moment's respite, before he dug in his pockets for his smokes and a lighter. It was only when he had sparked up and taken a deep drag that his shoulders slumped and he spared another look back over his shoulder.

"Thomas Knowles," he muttered. "It's Thomas Knowles."

**End.**


End file.
